Andy Worhol reckoned that in the future everyone would be
famous for 15 minutes. This has always concerned me slightly. I have no wish to
be famous, even for 15 minutes. It seems like an awful lot of bother.
Especially as I sit here in my paint splattered and ripped jogging bottoms with
a sink full of dirty dishes. If I was famous and the paparazzi were camped
outside my flat the pictures wouldn’t be particularly flattering. I don’t have
any curtains, you see. If I became famous I’d need to go out and buy curtains.
Nothing fills me with greater dread than the prospect of having to go and buy
curtains. So if you don’t mind I’ll leave the fame game to those who are well
disposed in the curtain department. Or at least postpone it until I get some
curtains.
No, it’s not me that I am concerned about when I think about
Worhols 15 minutes. It was those who actually wanted to become famous. Before I
had developed my aversion to curtain purchasing I had thought fame might be a
bit of a wheeze.
Although I grew up in a small town, it was large enough to
have a newspaper, but not large enough for anything interesting or newsworthy
ever to happen. Thus, the paper was filled with mundane stories about lost cats
and charity tombolas. If anything happened in St Andrews, and I mean anything,
it would appear in the St Andrews Citizen. When I was a kid, like every other
kid in the town, I often graced its pages – for nothing more noteworthy than
playing for the St Andrews Colts U11’s, playing for the School Rugby and Hockey
teams and once gaining a ‘highly commended’ rating in the annual Junior Hortus
Daffodil growing competition (I have only recently discovered that everyone who
entered gained a ‘highly commended’ rating, which has somewhat devalued that
particular achievement). However,
perhaps the zenith of my press appearances was when I won a competition to
design a poster for a new flavour of ice cream. The prize was a knickerbocker
glory served at the Old Course Hotel and I got my picture in the paper. Alas, I
was both a gauche child and a younger sibling which meant that the picture in
the paper was less than flattering. Me, in hand me down flared trousers and a
jumper that could have doubled as a sail. I still remember searing playground critique
of my sartorial choices the next day.
‘Ho! Kemp! I saw you in the paper. Where’d you get those
trousers? Fine Flares?’
Nah – fame wasn’t for me. At least not whilst my brothers
taste in clothing was still so rotten. But if Warhol was right you might not
have a choice. So I was quite happy getting my name in the paper every so often
in the hope that it would use up my 15 minutes. However it seems like I didn’t quite
use up all of my allotted time. The media heavyweights of both the St Andrews Citizen
and the Kirkintilloch Herald have picked up my story and have run a piece on my
challenge.
I’m off to Remnant Kings – I hear they have a sale on.
From Glasgow,
N
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